You have no idea, he says.
His voice is hard like a frozen wave.
When you look down.
When he looks away.
What do you do.
When you’ve made pot roast
a thousand Sundays,
washed his socks
and kissed him
and left millions of strands of your hair
on his clothes.
When all you had is never was.
What do you do.
You have no idea, he says.
He could wiggle his eyebrows like Groucho Marx.
Make your cat, Swoosie, sit up and beg.
He could melt you and put you in ice cube trays.
What do you do.
When the curtain parts to an empty stage.
When you pick up the script
You have no idea, he says.
You thought you did.
What does that make you now.
When it pulls you down to where it lives.
When it forgets the last time it was fed.
…